


Warmth

by virtueofvice



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:43:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtueofvice/pseuds/virtueofvice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stolen princess in rags; a single small flicker of brightness in the yawning black silence of the Dark Castle. An unexpected kindness that will plant the seeds of compassion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

Most of the Enchanted Forest (or Misthaven, as those who still remembered their histories would know it) was green, fertile land. Crops grew easily, game was plentiful. Winters were cold, but not unbearable. Few fell victim to the harshness of frosts and ill winds. Such was life in the woods and valleys, the wide open spaces of the world where, even in the iron grip of the Evil Queen, people laughed and loved and lived lives free of darkness, and princesses did not leave their homes to tend the castles of monsters. 

Except they did, when war threatened, and the shadowed end of the harvest year threatened to close its jaws on half-empty stores. They did, when they were young and fair and a little brave, more interested in books and cleverness than ballgowns and waltzes; and the offer of a fiend on her father's doorstep was met with a flutter of both excitement and terror by her traitor heart. They took the monster's arm with grace, as if accepting the offer of a dance, and allowed themselves to be swept off to a dark castle high in the mountains - far from the calm valleys below, which (for he was a monster, but true to his promises) were already recovering from the ravages of war, planting crops in the long furrows of earth ripped apart by hooves and tramping feet. 

The mountains were locked in perpetual night, it seemed at first, thunderheads glowering down in forbidding welcome as the iron gates locked behind her for the first and last time. Belle reached out a hand, the icy black surface rasping across her fingertips, a shudder of finality resonating through her as if the gate itself spoke of her future. Bleak, so bleak; isolation swallowing her up like dark water. And yet, as she turned to face the opalescent green gaze that arrested her attention; she could not fully mourn her fate. She had done the brave thing. Surrendering oneself was a quiet, meek version of the heroics to which she'd aspired, but it was a surrender entirely her own. Her old self would die, and her family would live.

And as for her new self… She crept through the castle, silently at first, for days on end. She traded her silk slippers for plain leather shoes with soft soles that whispered against the stone floors. A snug but sturdy, blue wool dress with a soft white chambric undershirt hugged her frame where once golden silks had swathed and confined her. Rumplestiltskin paid her little mind, other than directing her with a talon to one corner or another that needed sweeping. In the mornings she would deliver to the cellar the spools of golden thread he had spun during the night. He never seemed to sleep. For the first few weeks, she didn't either, but dampened the thin pillow of her small, lonely straw bed with tears each night. 

The dark castle was draughty, and winter in the mountains had teeth. Her meagre wool blanket had been fine, once, but age had worn it down, made it miserable and rough, threadbare patches showing where it wrapped tight against the hard curve of her knee or the jutting wing of her shoulderblade. She shivered, she cleaned. She cried, but kept silent. Till one day, she opened her eyes to see her breath condense on the frigid air in a room that wobbled and blurred. Her silent suffering had carved for itself a loud conclusion - a fever raged under her pale, clammy skin. 

Perching on the edge of her bed, she contemplated her options. Though her new master - _owner_ , her mind whispered - had not actively maligned her, she fancied him rather unsympathetic to excuses of illness. Frowning in concentration, she tied the wretched blanket around her shoulders like a pauper's cape and rose on unsteady legs, pausing again to catch her breath before continuing to the heavy ironwood door. It was massive and slow, turning reluctantly on rusted, squealing hinges, but hadn't been locked since her first week had ended. The door shrieked like a banshee when opened, totally obliterating the possibility of stealth - and she rather doubted Rumplestiltskin was concerned about security. The Dark Castle did not permit escape. Locking the door to her bedchamber would be the definition of superfluity, when the castle itself, and the mountains that cradled it in harsh remoteness, were the prison. 

And if she were to try… Well. The master of this castle would meet her at the gates, catching her up with barely a thought - so powerful as to be nearly omniscient. No. She did not entertain the idea, waving it aside with a literal gesture as she picked up her broom and set off for the great hall. Better to comply, to go about her chores quietly, and live; than to risk open defiance, and die. Besides, she had left her home (this truth residing in the still and hidden corner of her heart) for adventures - and she hadn't had any yet. 

These thoughts in mind, she made her way hesitantly into the great room, a little short of breath, her lips pursed in a tiny grimace of cold and discomfort. She looked very like an old woman, hunched into herself to protect the warmth of her body, ragged grey cloak, leaning on her broom for support. Her bedchamber had seemed cold enough, but in this high echoing hall, with her fevered blood pounding in her ears, she thought she could feel ice forming on her fingertips. The massive hearth, meant to heat the nobles at high table in happier times, sat dark and empty. Rumplestiltskin lit no fires. He did not feel the cold. 

Belle did, however, and her teeth chattered as she made her way over to the spinning wheel where the dark one sat, deep in thought. 

"Master, I-" She paused, swallowing and blinking slowly, as the stone floor tilted beneath her feet. Leaning on the broom for support, she tried again. "Good morning." Niceties were wasted on him, it seemed, but Belle had always observed politeness and had no intention of stopping now. "What would you have me do today?"

Rumplestiltskin finally seemed to notice her, turning his strange dragon gaze on her white, waxen features. "What's wrong with you?" He demanded immediately, cocking his head a little to one side as if physical fallibility were an unfamiliar concept. The peasant who walked with a limp was vastly removed from the strutting dark one in leather breeches with a dancer's grace.

"I'm ill." She replied quietly. "It's very cold in here, and I… am just a little under the weather." She straightened her spine, stenciling a tiny smile on her pale mouth, deep shadowed eyes - so brave! - reminding him for a moment of someone else. Putting on her best face, despite how she was feeling inside. He frowned. 

Couldn't have the girl dying on him. Who would take the gold down cellar in the mornings? Pressing his lips together, the dark one rose smoothly to his feet and stepped closer, the gesture fluid and quick as a striking snake. Belle raised her head abruptly, her torso tilting back in surprise, but made no move to step away. 

"It's fine, I can still work-" she started, then gasped as the world tilted crazily again and she lost her balance. She brought a hand down on the ornate wooden table behind her, careful to avoid the philters and parchments scattered across it. Rumplestiltskin took her elbow, bending to peer into her eyes. 

"You're burning up. Go back to bed."

"But-" She hesitated. The imp did nothing for free, such was the legend, which desperate people across the land and throughout history knew for truth, to their sorrow. This apparent kindness - or, if not outright charity, then at least a lack of malice - had to come at a price. Hadn't it?

"Go." He commanded, the conversation closed; and turned his back to her, moving round to the broad side of his worktable and laying out the day's project. When she lingered still, he responded with a pair of snaps - banishing first the gold from beside the spinning wheel, then her broom from her very hands. "Go away." He made a little shooing gesture, looking vaguely amused. "The dirt will still be there tomorrow, but my patience may be gone." 

She eyed him for a moment more, wary; then dipped a curtsey and left the room, headed back up the way she came. A pause at the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder, skirts in hand. "Thank you… Rumplestiltskin." 

"It's Master Rumplestiltskin to you, dearie." He muttered dryly, and she could not help the smile that quivered at the edges of her lips as she mounted the stairs. 

He was gruff, and detached, and clearly not human. Crueler masters there were, surely, but perhaps none more unnerving. Yet when she opened the door to her bedchamber, she found a fire blazing merrily in the hearth. A new pillow and blanket, rich embroidered white satin and thick lamb's wool, rested on her humble bed. A steaming bowl of clear broth and a loaf of soft white bread waited on a small table beneath the window. Belle smiled and seated herself at table, reaching for the bread with shaking hands and dipping it in the broth. 

For all his callous dismissal, the new trappings of the room seemed a great deal like kindness. She nibbled the moistened bread, feeling warmth spread through her belly, a dew of sweat breaking out on her forehead as her fever gave way beneath the onslaught of magic woven like gold thread into the food. Craving rest, she crawled beneath the inviting softness of her new blanket, asleep almost at once. Upon waking, she discovered that the drawers in the room's tiny wardrobe had acquired new occupants - several sets of warm woolen stockings, soft, brown leather boots, and a heavy wool cloak in the same deep shade of burgundy that characterized his polished leather ensemble. She grinned, dressing warmly for the first time since the snows came, and descended from the tower to resume her work.


End file.
